


Allegiance and Alliances

by PureBatWings



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anti-liverwurst sentiments, Creole and French language, F/F, F/M, First Meetings, Friends to lovers... almost, Hand of Glory as a gift, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Metamorphmagus, Patronus, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Seraphina is a Sherlock Holmes fan, Seraphina's end game is a loooong one, Sign Language, Social Networking, Southern chauvinism, Southern foods, Southern no-maj segregation, Studying, Trans Character, Trees, Twins, berdache, protective papa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-01 17:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10926225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PureBatWings/pseuds/PureBatWings
Summary: The talented Horned Serpent Seraphina invades Wampus Percival's favorite study spot and thus begins the story of how two strong personalities came to an understanding and more.Usual legal disclaimers apply. Not my characters, not for money, no copyright infringement implied.





	1. First Impressions

**Autumn 1899**

“Never judge a grimoire by its cover,” his great aunt Aurelia Coffin had cautioned him on his birthday when he got his acceptance letter for Ilvermorny. Since that time, he had found this advice applicable a number of times in his life.

He had started his third year and would be fourteen soon and hoped he would get taller soon, since his voice had been cracking for a while already. It was their first evening back in Massachusetts at school and everyone was eager to see the first years sorted so they could have supper.

Percival settled himself halfway up the stairs in the Great Hall, perching on the landing so he had a clear view of all four statues who determined a person’s house allegiance. Alys Mallory, Kyril Orlinkski and Guiseppe Orsini had gone to Wampus, Pukwudgie and Thunderbird.

“Seraphina Picquery,” rang out the next name, and a small sharp-featured slip of a brown skinned girl in a white summer frock with ramrod posture and shockingly pale blonde hair topped off with a large bow stepped onto the floor’s central medallion.

“Wa—“

“Puk—"

“Thun—“

“Horn—"

came a babbling chorus of voices as the statues moved and turned their gazes on the young girl, claiming her as worthy of their particular house. A murmuring arose from the other students. About every few years someone was double-claimed, he had Horned Serpent and Wampus both vie for him and he remembered his father saying that a student had been thrice claimed for the first time in seventeen years when he was finishing his last year. But all four?

His mind boggled, this was a historic event, a once in a lifetime or at least a generation sorting that he was witnessing. Everyone waited silently for her choice.

“Miss Picquery?” prompted Professor Gormengast. There still was Potter, Rodriguez, Saint-Pierre, Smith, Theotokopoulous, Tang, Ulverscroft, Williams, Woodruff and Zoroaster to sort and he was looking forward to his after-dinner drinks. The girl seemed to be holding a mental conversation with the statues and ignored his implied question. After another minute, she nodded decisively at the four figures. She shot a quick look at the students surrounding her. They stared, amazed at her coolness at finding herself in the middle of such an exciting event.

“Horned Serpent,” she said clearly, with a bit of a southern drawl, and Magic magnified her voice, so all heard her decision, approved by the power that shaped their lives. Clapping and excited chatter erupted from the Horned Serpent students.

It was anticlimactic in the extreme to wait for the final ten students to be chosen. Potter and Tang ended up in Percival’s house, Wampus for warriors.

**Fall 1900**

Power was fascinating. Learning lots of spells helped one control one’s power, but it wasn’t going to augment one’s power if it wasn’t there to begin with. A weak wizard wasn’t going to get more power unless he allied himself with someone more powerful in marriage or as a lover or ally. And even then, it was borrowed power. In some cases, a more or less equally strong pair with resonant magics could greatly amplify each other’s power. That, like soulmates or creature inheritances was something that information on was hard to come by, you had to hunt it out.

Some people were like the sun, a personal spark, a charisma drawing attention, good or envious, to watch their every move. They could talk and even if they weren’t famous orators, people would still listen and heed their words. They seemed to pick up how to lead effortlessly, to connect with people from all backgrounds. They were talked about, the stars that mere reflecting planets encircled, hoping for a solar flare of attention without getting charred.

Seraphina was one such person.  She was held up as example for even older students, which won her few friends, but a host of admirers. She was a quick witted learner, as befitted one of the Horned Serpent house. She was a fearless flier that Wampus’ quodpot team yearned to defeat.

Percival was half-aware of her growing fame and the various rumors, a mix of truth and jealous gossip that circulated about the blonde prodigy. She wasn’t however, his focus as puberty began in earnest. His cracking voice began to settle as other physical changes took place. Those were unsettling at times, embarrassing when he got an erection at an inopportune time, pleasing when he saw his muscles becoming more prominent as he practiced dueling and exercised by running, swimming, rock climbing and playing sports. He knew he needed to be in good shape so he could become an auror, as had many generations of Graves men had been before him, since the founder, Gondolphus Graves, one of the Twelve founding families.

**Spring 1901**

He had a special place on the school grounds where he liked to go to practice spells he was learning or homework assignments where an open space was better than an enclosed room. It was the area around a broad limbed oak that was grown when the Burning Times took places centuries before. It had a solid presence almost like it could be Yggdrasil, the world ash tree, axis of the world. It was, at least one of the private pivot points of his Ilvermorny experience.

He happily made his way to his special spot and stopped cold. Seraphina Picquery had taken over his special private place in her usual spectacular fashion which she made look effortless. It was the casual use of power that really pissed off many jealous older students in his house and others. She had cast a spell, probably wandless, that left her floating, eyes closed, face serene. She was only a few feet off the mossy ground so she wouldn’t be hurt if her focus broke, but still, Percival marveled at the harnessing of such power—she could fly, broom-free.

He quietly cleared his throat politely so as not to startle her and she dropped a few inches as her eyes opened and her wand appeared in her hand. She rose again so her face was on a level with his. She hovered, cross-legged, on a cushion of air and power.

“A personal variation on Levicorpus?” he asked curiously.

She nodded and gave him an assessing look before putting her wand away. He had grown enough over the last summer and was handsome enough to get some interested looks from a few boys rumored to be “that way” and admiring looks from several girls, sometimes with smiles.

Picquery’s look was far from simpering and more like that of a potions master assessing color and turbidity before forcing its student creator to sample their own work for a final exam grade. He wondered if he would be flunked or somehow miraculously pass.

“Couldn’t you find somewhere else to go and loiter?” she asked finally, after a good minute of taking his measure. He felt a wisp of her magic brush his mind and strengthened his mental shields, glad that Aunt Aurelia had started showing him the basics of occlumency last summer. Well, that was a rude way to treat a fellow, insult him and then try to poke about in his thoughts.

He planted his shoes more firmly into the mossy turf. “I could go,” he said mildly, while his stance communicated an obstinate wish to remain and intimated that she’d need a small army to move him.

She grunted. “But you won’t leave me alone,” she said flatly.

“No.” He was interested to see what the teachers’ darling would say or do in response to his challenge.

“Why are you here?” He cocked his head to look at her. She was honestly curious, not just quarrelsome.

“This tree—it’s primeval. It was old when the Twelve’s great-grandparents were babies,” he explained hesitantly, not really answering what she asked.

“Plenty of old growth forest in these hills,” she said dryly. “And centuries old trees in the Louisiana Bayous too. You could go linger near them.” And not bother me, was the obvious, unspoken rest of the sentence.

He blew out an exasperated breath that stirred his bangs, and gave the real reason.

“All right, here’s how it is. I come because there’s power here—I can feel it—the tree, maybe ley lines here, I haven’t dowsed the land to check--I  figure that can be a special class project in the future--and when I practice spells I’m learning, they seem to be easier to do here.”

“You’re right, they are,” she agreed. Apparently having made some sort of decision, she gracefully dropped to her feet. He had at least four to six inches on her, but her uncanny composure almost made up for her lack of height.

She raised her head to look up at him. Her dark eyes under finely arched eyebrows bore into his. “And what spell are you grappling with today, Percival Graves?” He was not surprised she knew his name. A twice great uncle Jeremiah Coffin Graves had been a trustee a century back and his portrait proved that the combination of dark eyes and hair with firm eyebrows was a persistent family appearance over the years.

“Patronus.” It’s one he had practiced almost daily since the school year started seven months ago.

“Mmm, you know that perhaps only a third of magic wielders manage to produce a full blown one consistently?” she inquired conversationally. Trust a Horned Serpent to know the exact dismal statistic.

“If I’m going to be an auror, it would be a leg up on my competition to have Patronus in my arsenal,” he said. He vowed to himself he would master this spell.

She shot him a sardonic look. “Like a Wampus student needs an additional leg, aren’t six enough?”

“Are you a snake or a centipede, Seraphina Picquery? You seem to have many legs up on your competition in all manner of things.”

She looked thoughtful. “Time will tell, but yes, I’m already at least a couple of wampuses ahead of my competition for certain.”

“What do you want to do when you graduate?” he asked. He didn’t expect her to say she was going to marry and lapse into obscurity, but the calm assurance of her answer floored him. “I’m going to be President of MACUSA.”

“Right out of Ilvermorny, you’ll become President,” he drawled, “sure you will. And virgins will scare off unicorns.”

“Idiot. Of course I’ll have to work my way up. A stint in the aurors for military type experience, then serving as a chief of staff for a senator or cabinet member, becoming a Senator or Vice President and then President. I figure I’ll be President by my mid to late thirties.”

“Even fewer people become President than produce a patronus,” he observed, twirling his wand idly in his right hand. He wanted to see her reaction to being provoked in turn.

“I shall be President, all the same,” she asserted. “My great aunt who’s married to a cousin of Marie LeVeau saw it when she read the bones for me before I left to come north to school in ‘99. Power, highest power and fame, she said.”

“My great aunt Theodosia Coffin reads a Tarot spread for me for the coming school year  each August. My significator card was the Knight of Wands and my future influence was the Queen of Swords. The lovers and the Chariot and Death were also in the spread, but I don’t remember the details.” He shrugged, Divination was definitely not his thing. He preferred a definite problem he could address, or an issue he could grapple with and subdue.

“Can you do Patronus yet?” he asked. She was supposed to be a prodigy, after all.

“I’m getting there, but not yet,” she replied grimly. “And then I need to manage the part that lets it carry messages for me.”

“Show me, please?” He had never see the spell done up close.

“You can’t laugh. Promise or I’ll hex you—severely.”

“On the grave of Gondophus Graves, I so promise,” he said, raising his wand in a vowing gesture.

“Expecto Patronum!” Seraphina said, flourishing her wand in her left hand. A brief outline of a bird with a hooked beak shimmered before dissipating. A lone silver image of a feather drifted in the air a few seconds until it, too, dissolved into nothing.

“Damn, you are good,” he said, impressed. “I’ve been practicing since last fall and all I’ve managed are a few silvery sparks that could be anything. At least you know yours is some kind of bird of prey.”

“None of the older students in my house who have a patronus would help me,” she said. “I asked all five of them.”

“Why not?” asked Percival. Who wouldn't want to be owed a favor by this genius?

“Mostly because they see me as a little girl. Smart, maybe, but a baby. One boy told me to focus on voodoo dolls, love spells and gris gris and leave the real magic to real men."

"That’s prejudiced and plain stupid. I’ll help you hex him,” offered Percival. “He should know magical power comes in different levels or gifts or creature inheritances to all sorts of wizarding folks all over our country.”

She grinned maliciously. “One day I’ll be in charge and I have a very long memory. Unless his attitude changes for the better, he’ll pay eventually. Or his daddy the Senator will find a pet project suddenly unfunded, if he’s still in office and the money moved to fund scholarships for poor kids to come to Ilvermorny or little girls to study voodoo as well as love spells.”

Percival chucked inwardly, she seemed like a bobcat plotting how to take out a lion.

“So, show me,” she said. “I showed you mine, you show me yours.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, wiggling it suggestively. She rolled her eyes so hard it should have hurt. “Boys. Maybe your patronus would improve if y’all weren’t obsessed with sexuality.”

“Now who’s stereotyping? Maybe my happy memory is a sexual encounter,” he protested. She looked pointedly at his right hand and made a scoffing noise.

“As if. Besides, your family is one of the Twelve, you’re not going to risk a bastard when they don’t teach effective contraception spells until our last year here.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Discussion at the last trustees’ meeting. Some of the progressives are pushing for it a year earlier in the curriculum,” she answered promptly.

“I thought it was dull things like budgets, rules, regulations—who knew?”

“Well, it mostly is,” Seraphina confessed, “but for me I see it as a way to meet influential people as well as representing my student constituents. It’s not as though I have a tie breaking vote or anything useful as a representative…”

She fell silent and stared at him, waiting. He took a stance and lifted his wand.

“Wait! Eleazor Mordant suggests a 45 degree angle isn’t as effective as a lower one, say, 30 degrees. And since you are manifesting an image, your grip on your wand should be a looser one than you use for, say, dueling or defensive spells.”

He looked at her dubiously, but figured he had nothing to lose by following her directions.

She inspected him, hands on her hips, her wand stuck through her dress’s sash.

“Anything else?”

She pursed her lips. “You’re not relaxed enough. Can I show you what I mean?”

“What? Are you planning on hexing my muscles into jelly?”

“Not a bad idea, but no,” she smirked. She faced him and put one slim hand on his chest and another on his hip, holding him lightly in place.

“Breathe with me.”

His turn—he rolled his eyes. “Woo-woo divination crap, waste of time.”

“Yours or mine? Shut up and breathe, Graves.” It didn’t seem like a good idea to disobey the bossy girl. Dutifully he synchronized his breath to hers.

“Good, now, close your eyes.” Warily he did so and felt a warmth pouring off her hand, into his chest, that rushed down his torso and spine and joined with the heat of her hand moving his hip slowly back and forth, to loosen his stance. After that, things got embarrassing—his cock perked up in interest at the intensity of her unfamiliar magic flowing through his body, sparking along his muscles and veins.

“Um, Picquery, you’d better stop whatever it is you’re doing,” he advised gruffly, pulling his sweater down further. He was glad it was oversized and would hide some of his impudent trouser snake.

“Okay, now, while your blood’s flowing south and you’re distracted and not trying to force a patronus—cast it!” she instructed, stepping back from him.

“Expecto Patronum.” His mind went to the warmth of her magic intertwining with his as he released the spell with a movement of his wand at the suggested angle. For a few seconds a grey bird shape wheeled overhead before vanishing. In the distance, a crow cawed.

He whooped in delight. “It worked! I almost got it!”

She coughed significantly and he hastily remembered his manners and thanked her for her help. She preened a bit and gave him a small smile as a reward.

“Can we practice something else together? Is there anything I could help you with?” he asked eagerly.

She looked at him. “You’re a fair match to me in dueling—it’s hard to practice shielding without another person…”

“Sure!” he agreed enthusiastically. The third time in an hour that he hit the ground from a defensive move of his that had rebounded off her shields or been smacked by her offense spells, he was starting to feel sore, but his enthusiasm to get to know her had only increased.

She reached out a hand and pulled him to his feet and cast a bruise healing charm on him that also seemed to relax his muscles—except—damn, he was getting hard again. An irritated noise escaped his lips.

She looked over at him. “What, you don’t want a third year healing you? Or you can’t deal with a girl besting you?”

“No, that’s okay, your healing works, that’s what I care about. Look, are you part Veela or something like that?”

“Not to my knowledge, nor do we have siren in my bloodlines. I’m a little young for you to start with the flirty questions and come on lines, you know.”

He snorted. “I’m not flirting with you, Phina—I just—“ he broke off his sentence before he could complete it. It was hardly a polite conversation to have, much less with a younger girl. She pointedly looked at his bulge in his pants and then looked in his eyes and smiled wickedly.

“I have a brother five years older than me who would always answer lil sister Fee’s questions, no matter how embarrassing, about the differences between boys and girls, " she said conversationally, almost playfully. A harder note entered her voice. "If I seriously thought you were just flirting with me to try to get in my good graces, I’d hex your privates with purple pustules. The kind that are the size of scuppernong grapes.”

He sputtered, then shut up as she put up a hand to quiet him. “Relax, I'll teach you that hex another day.  It's like this, Graves--Power calls to power, my grandmere said. Your power aligned with mine when I fed you some of my magic. We probably amplify each other’s magic on any number of levels, but we’ll have to wait a few years to absolutely confirm that, if you want. So—will you be my friend and ally?”

“You’re not going to come into a creature inheritance as a succubus, are you?” Percy asked suspiciously. “I won’t be a yes-man to anyone, no matter how talented she or he is.”

“I want a friend with compatible magic-- for now-- and you’re the best match I’ve yet found. I've been taking other students' measures since I arrived here.”

“For now? What’s that supposed to mean?” It sounded like she was planning on a long term alliance and the thought both alarmed and delighted him.

“You didn’t think my plans to become President seemed achievable, so I don’t think I’ll share anything else right now. Especially if you don’t wish to join me as a comrade in arms. I'll just leave you to figure out Patronus on your own. Don’t worry, you should get it by the time you’re in your late twenties,” she teased.

He groaned. “You’re cruel, you know that? Yes, I want to get to know you better, then we can call each other friends.”

“Acceptable,” she said with alacrity, and in the primeval glade they shook hands on it and felt the force of their magic spark between each other once again.


	2. Body Double

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival gets a letter that troubles him. As usual, Seraphina has answers and reveals some of her long term plans to her closest friend.

**October 1902:**

He read the letter again, just to be sure. It was a typical letter from his father. It contained news of Aunt Aurelia’s latest predictions, his younger sister Maeve’s hope she was a seer, that his mother’s chocolate cake had taken third place at the county fair last month and some edited stories from his father about the latest cons popular with no-maj shysters that wizarding criminals were adopting and he and his fellow aurors were thwarting. It was the second postscript that contained the bombshell, or at least a ticking fuse.

P.S. Percy, your mother reminds me to send all her love and asks if you’d like a prize-winning cake sent to you for your birthday next month?

P.P.S.-She asks if you’ve begun to manifest any Metamorphmagus traits? It sometimes skips a generation, but her uncle and father put this gift to great use as Union spies during the Wizarding War Between the States. Be on the lookout so we can send you information about this inheritance, if you need it. Typically eye and hair color changes are the first signs you or your friends will notice. I know this may be unwelcome (here Percival snorted at the vast understatement), but please be aware we don’t hold with dated superstitions and we are very proud of our young Wampus and all you have accomplished thus far,

Much love,

Your Father

He stood up from the bench where he had sat down to read his letter before supper. Now he didn’t want to eat anything, his stomach was cramping with anxiety about whether he would have yet another “challenge” as Phina called sticky problems, to deal with, besides studying and his extracurricular training with her.

What little he could recall about shape-changers wasn’t positive. Often they were seen as potential traitors, natural turncoats in war time, or as perfect gifted spies or assassins. None of this was going to look good for an otherwise upstanding applicant to the Auror corps.

In some general sense this fear and distrust was tied into ancient primal beliefs tied to twins and doppelgangers and death. A metamorphmagus was a living fetch to some, a scary harbinger of the grim reaper to the person whose face and form they used as a disguise. There were good reasons to keep this information to himself or privy to only a few chosen confidants.

He made his way automatically to the pair of armchairs in a little used corner of the school library where he and Seraphina made it a habit to talk for a while most nights after supper before nighttime curfew to their dorms kicked in—at eight thirty for her and ten for him.

He sat stewing, his elbow on the overstuffed arm of the chair, his hand propping up his head while he considered the implications. He rested his forefinger over his mouth, deep in contemplation, and jumped a bit when Phina appeared in his field of vision and threw down her book satchel.

She took the chair beside his and passed him a liverwurst sandwich with onion and mustard on rye wrapped in a cloth napkin swiped from the dining hall. Personally, it disgusted her as a food item, but Percy almost never refused to eat the combination. In return, he humored her periodic consumption of peanut butter sandwiches or  po’ boys.

He grunted his thanks. “I guess I shouldn’t tackle a “challenge” without eating, huh?” he asked wryly as he crunched on a loose bit of onion. She wrinkled her nose and thanked the Powers that she wasn’t kissing him yet. She had some time to convince him to eat something less—pungent.

“An army marches on its stomach,” she said drolly. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her stockinged feet underneath her butt. He avoided making eye contact with her, he wasn’t sure he wanted a pep talk from his friend just yet. She let him eat most of his sandwich in peace, watching him keenly.

“Observe this young man, Watson,” she began, in a passable upper class British drawl of an accent. “We can ascertain from the hunched shoulders that he has taken a metaphoric blow recently and is bracing himself for more distressing news. The corner of his letter peeking out of his pocket indicates this is from a frequent correspondent, presumably a parent missing his child off at boarding school, which has delivered this ill-received knowledge. This is an Ilvermorny sixth year, near his sixteenth year and from his patch on his blazer, of the house of warriors, Wampus.  Surely such a young man should be joyous, his whole life ahead of him once he quits these halls— he prefers a life of action given his hands have more calluses than ink stains…”

He raised his head as he chewed his final bite and swallowed. “Sera, you have _got_ to get over this obsession with the no-maj detective Holmes. It’s an alarmingly fanatical level of enthusiasm you have for Dr. Doyle’s creation.”

She ignored him and imperiously continued her analysis. “Near sixteen, you say, Holmes?”

“You know my birthday is November fifth, Guy Fawkes Day, you didn’t deduce that,” he responded grumpily.

“And what happens to a wizard of sixteen, my good doctor? He is not yet a full-fledged adult even though his voice has changed to a manly rumble, his limbs lengthened, muscles grown and puberty has him in its febrile clutches. That is right, puberty brings a possible creature inheritance to some or a trait to manifest itself for the first time. We can eliminate vampiric tendencies as onions are closely related to garlic, both being members of the allium or lily family and he has just consumed onions with relish.”

“Actually mustard,” Percival pointed out, annoyed at her perspicacity. “You forgot my pickle relish.”

She dropped her game of consulting detective and raised her wand deliberately in his direction.  “Spill it, Graves or I’ll hex you ‘til you tell. You’re worrying me-- which inheritance runs in your bloodlines that you just found out about?”

“I could be a... metamorphmagus.”

She put her wand back in its sheath and joined him in thought.

“Could be far worse, you know,” she offered gently, after a few minutes, poking his nearest leg with her foot to get his attention.

 He gave her a sour look. “Yeah? How?”

“You could be an animagus-- a cockroach—which I suppose could make for some wicked surveillance skills if you didn’t get stepped on or swatted to death. Or an elephant who could only take refuge in no-maj zoos.”

“Bitchy witch, you’re the one who likes peanuts.” She ignored the uncreative rhyming insult.

 “Or, worse yet--imagine being an incubus and an auror. You’d never last in a vice squad busting prostitutes. There you’d be, rounding up ladies of the night or pretty fey rent boys and wham, they’re struck by lust and take you furiously in front of your appalled coworkers…”

They were both surprised by the laugh that erupted from him at the mental image.

“Gods, I would so be disinherited, made to change my name and forced to move far, far away from New York.”

“Good, I made you laugh. Either you are one or you’re not, and no amount of worry will change what’s in your blood. I’m sure you’ll be a good auror regardless. And if you are a metamorphmagus I can think of a number of new ways that such a gift could be useful to me.”

“I live to serve,” he said, very dryly. They both knew he was a proud man, but that he was also her friend, her future right-hand man. Over the summer he had hosted her at his family’s upstate New York estate and this Yule he would go south with her to meet her family in New Orleans. The hours together, their uninterrupted conversations between experimentation with two person spells had only tied them closer.

His mother had drawn him aside to ask if they were romantically involved and wasn’t she a bit young for him? She had seemed reassured by his avowal that they were good friends, nothing more.

His father had slightly different concerns, wanting to know if Percival was willing to be overshadowed by this powerful phenomenon, to tie himself to someone so focused on her goals, possibly even willing to sacrifice him to gain her life’s political ambitions? 

When Percy had started to protest, his father had raised his hand. “I’m not asking you to defend her or break faith with her, just to consider her power and your power in comparison to one another and what each of you put into this friendship, and what you two will do with this alliance of yours when you are both done with school. Teaching each other clever spells and hexes is fine for two teenagers, but if you are not throwing in your lot with her for a very long time, then when you leave Ilvermorny in two years, that would be the time to break ties with her and forge your own path in life.”

He spent many days after she went home for a short visit in August in serious thought. He could come up with no strong reasons to stop being friends with Phina and many good reasons he wanted to keep her in his life, however she wanted him, in whatever role. Finally, he approached his great aunt for a Tarot reading, to her surprised delight.

It was a reading full of strong female cards including Strength, the Lovers, the Two of Cups, the Nine of Wands, The Queen of Wands (Seraphina) and the Knight of Cups (himself). It at least confirmed the decision he had already made, he was Seraphina’s… liege man  or parfait knight and she was his… queen? object of his devotion?  The old-fashioned courtly phrases sounded odd for an American wizard in the twentieth century to use, but they seemed strangely appropriate.

“So…” said Seraphina. “Are you willing to hear what plans I have for us if you have this inheritance, or shall I spring it on you if or when you manifest it?”

He cast a Tempus charm. Over an hour until her curfew. “Go ahead, we’ve at least an hour.”

“This could be a very good thing. You know how you protected me from Fabien and Tieger from ganging up on me in dueling last week?”

“Squibwits. If they’d done more than hex your hair turquoise and fingernails chartreuse I would have hidden their bodies in the Bermuda Triangle.”

She smiled. “My staunch protector… there are far closer places to dispose of a corpse, _mon brave_.”

“Not that you’re not entirely capable of dealing with them yourself,” he assured her. “But no one needs to know yet that you’re capable of taking down several attackers with a Maximus Bombarda. I need the practice being your sword and shield more than you need practice in self-defense.”

“You can also be my body double, if you’re a metamorphmagus.”

“You mean I could impersonate you?”

“Mm-hmm. A decoy, a second target in a large crowd, a leader in two places at once, confounding her would be assassins, anarchists and miscellaneous mischief makers. My shadow twin and doppelganger,” she added pointedly, using the words that were commonly used to spread fear about this inheritance and people who possessed it.

“All right, I see how this curse of mine could help protect you in a fight as an auror or when you become President of MACUSA.”

She smiled fondly at him. “Smart fellow. I mean for you to stand with me, you know, for long as you will.” Her hand rested over his, squeezing reassuringly, her magic running into him, a honey-like warmth pouring into his veins, stiffening his resolve. He loved the feel of her power twining through his body, helixing with his magic.  “I absolutely know you have my back, no Unbreakable Vows needed,” she added.

“I don’t want to be your Vice President, Phina. I couldn’t stomach all the ass kissing involved in being an elected official. Maybe I’ll be Head Auror someday?”

“Something like that. I think we, as a nation, need a federal department to coordinate policing and national security-- particular the Statues of Secrecy, and that sort of job, heading up such an important part of government would fit your skills very well by the time we’re in our thirties.”

He shook his head, marveling. She was unbeatable in chess since she thought far ahead of everyone else. Her short term plans were the equivalent of others’ long game plans and her long game was over an arc of decades, even a century if they lived long enough.

“You are something else. Maybe a force of nature in a witch’s body?” he asked in admiration.

“Mais oui,” she said steadfast in her self-confidence, and winked. She had started teaching him French, though mostly of the gutter variety that her mother would never countenance within her hearing. With the aid of a memory and learning charm, he could hold a basic conversation, inquire about a bordello’s rates for different sexual acts, order in a restaurant and ask where the bathroom was after the meal.

“Now, have you calmed yourself? I’m not going to run screaming from you and your possible inheritance, silly man."

“That’s good. So. We’re still a team,” he said, stating the obvious with relief.  

She nodded and waited. He blew out a breath, ruffling his bangs and fidgeted with his wand.

“Problem?” She knew all of his nervous tells.

“There's gossip that we're more than a team, that we’re dating. What happens to us as a team if I get a girlfriend or you get a boyfriend or vice versa?”

“Oh, is there someone you’re interested in dating? Tell me who! Go on and date her or him. Sow some wild rice as the no-majs say—you don’t need my blessing, but you have it.”

“It’s wild oats one sows, you Southern upstart.”

“When I’m President, I’ll change it to wild rice by Executive order. So who do you like?”

He scowled. “Roger McMoon likes you, Sera. He was making mooncalf eyes at you over his cauldron in Potions on Tuesday." Seraphina had managed to get her self placed a year ahead in most of her classes by pulling strings with a friend on the Board of Trustees and with his class in Potions, Defense and History. She was trying to graduate early and would doubtless succeed.

She sniffed. “Roger McMoon likes **_both_** of us. He’d probably have a stroke from excitement if we offered him a threesome. Pity I dislike idiots, no matter how muscular.”

He knew her tells as well. “You’re deflecting. Is there someone you like? Why not go after them?”

She looked at him through her curly dark eyelashes. “I’m not yet fifteen, Perce. There is no way I’m wasting my time going out for moonlit walks and stolen kisses while I’m at school. I’m here make alliances and gather information. As for intercourse, I’ll have it when I’m seventeen and an adult and can use my virginity for sex magic to magnify my power and that of my partner.”

“And if you fall in love, what then?” Of the two of them, he was more of a diehard romantic, a fact he strove to hide mightily.

He remembered the various crushes he had had that came and went between the ages of twelve and now. He definitely didn’t have a preferred type or gender, it was more their aura, a type of attitude or—power. That was the commonality. He could instinctively sense if someone had power equaling his, or if it were of a greater or lesser sort. Most people were lacking, and perhaps a dozen people he had met were more powerful. These included a few professors, his father, the creator of his wand, and Seraphina.

She studied him and then nodded, having come to a decision. “I can’t love someone I don’t trust, Percival. And whom do I trust the most? You. I am not, however, in love with you. Not exactly... sorry.”

“What?” his mouth fell open and his brain literally slammed to a halt. He wasn't sure how to parse her "not exactly" or the distinction she drew between loving and being in love.  “You want to be with—me? But you just said you weren’t going to—you know, do It until you were seventeen. That’s three years away!”

She smiled at him, her nose squinching up delightfully. “Intercourse no. Other things?” She shrugged, “well perhaps. But if you have a raging case of blue balls and want to fornicate them away, then please go enjoy yourself—safely.” She magicked a packet out of the air and tossed it to him.  “Prophylactic anti-conception spells on the parchment wrapping and no-maj condoms. My brother says it’s an odd sensation on your manhood, but still worth experiencing at least once. Roll it on once you’re fully erect,”she directed.

He flushed bright red and shoved her gift in his pants pocket. “It’s a damn good thing I haven’t gone all spoony and dewy eyed over you, Phina. You could wither a man’s erection with your relentless practicality and frank language.”

“Oh. So you don’t think of me as a romantic partner,” she concluded, seeming a bit downcast. “Am I only a bossy younger sister to you and nothing more?”

He quite honestly hadn’t thought of her as anything than his closest friend, ally and even his teacher at times. Now her really looked at her. She had the impeccable queenly carriage (not visible as she slumped comfortably in the armchair), an unusual self-confidence and an unreal calm that she had first shown at her Sorting. Her face was less sharp and she had started to get some womanly curves as she gained inches. She was only a few inches shorter than his own 5’8” and still growing into a handsome woman.

“No, you’re nothing like my sister Maeve. I didn’t think about you like that. It just didn’t occur to me that your long-term plans for us included being each other’s paramour. You're my friend and I love you too, but I hadn't considered anything like romance with you, you know? I would very much enjoy being lovers with you, I think.” Another thought struck him. “You know I’ve no intention of marrying until I’m well settled in my career?”

She made a dismissive noise. “Since when have you and I done things conventionally? I’m not sure the advantages of having a husband as rising political star would outweigh the possible political drawbacks. So long as I’m discreet in my affairs and don’t get branded a harlot in public I believe a quiet friends with benefits arrangement will suit me in the future.”

He thought about it. Of course her power was intoxicating, it had been a draw for him from the first. She was cool but if you knew her well, and he liked to think he did, she had a passionate intense core.  If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have been so ambitious and driven. If he started thinking about her intense focus on him and his sexual responses... well. “You really want me as a lover?”

She purred. “Eventually. Your magic mixing with mine feels delicious. If you could only see your back muscles when you practice spells shirtless in warm weather—“

“At least I stopped getting erections every time your magic interacted with mine.”

She pouted prettily. “My Graves loss. Maybe I’ll give you a kiss or sixteen of them for your birthday, my boy.”

She followed through with her promise two weeks later and a few days after that, she was the first to see his dark brown eyes, following a flyer making a goal at a Quodpot game slowly turn a stormy, cloudy grey that matched the hue of the November New England skies.


	3. Visiting Seraphina's Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy encounters the Big Easy and Seraphina's family at Yule.

**December 1902**

After a long shuddering breath in unison, they let go of the death grip on each other’s hands and Percival handed Seraphina the rusty lug nut portkey for safekeeping until their return trip.

“I can’t wait until I can legally apparrate,” she said, a shudder moving up her spine. “This is truly an unpleasant way to travel once a trip exceeds five hundred miles. You okay, Perce?”

“Sure.” He took a long breath, fighting off dizziness. “Wow, this is warm after the Berkshires, isn’t it? Feels like October does in Massachusetts,” said Percy, taking off his wool coat and scarf and shrinking them to put in his blazer pocket.  They had landed behind a bunch of bushes near the Audubon Park’s Horticultural Hall. It was all that was left of the 1884 World’s Cotton Fair’s buildings.

“Graves.” He looked up at the tension in her voice.

“Can you please do me a favor? I’ll explain later, if I need to,” she demanded premptorily.

“Of course. What is it?”

“Change your appearance to look like a middle aged negro man. We’ll need to go through some no-maj areas here, and I don’t want some bigoted squib seeing through a notice me not spell and giving us trouble about walking together. Just follow my lead if anyone talks to us, okay?”

Percival concentrated. In the month or so since he had manifested metamorphmagus traits he had managed to change his eye and hair color and skin tone, but he had yet to change much about his facial structure or his appearance enough to be seen as a woman. Perfecting changes was a work in progress.

“Good, that’ll do, add a few wrinkles to your face especially around your eyes and a bit of grey to your hair. Fine, you’re my Uncle George.” She cast notice me not and a few other spells to help them pass undetected. He was surprised to see her body language change to a more relaxed pliant one and she took his arm as she led them past Tulane and Newcomb College and through the Carrollton district to her family’s house.

He followed her lead and didn’t speak. An auror needed to be able to observe his surroundings and notice things, he reminded himself. They nodded to people on the street who nodded to them. He tried to identify the huge trees he observed, some draped in Spanish moss, the old houses with columned porches, smaller shotgun houses and the profusion of greenery, even this late in the year.

He had never been this far south before, just to Washington DC on a short trip to the no-maj capitol with his father once as a boy. He also saw the Whites Only signs in shop windows and above doors. Her request suddenly made unpleasant sense, in a visceral way that reading news articles about no-maj segregation affecting race relations among Southern wizarding folk never had.

They passed under a wooden archway supporting the faded remnants of roses and rosehips at the front yard of a shotgun house located on a corner. He felt a sting of perimeter wards and a slight resistance before they passed through them. The front door opened and a dozen or so people of all ages spilled onto the sloping porch.

After a round of hugs and aunts exclaiming over her height and new hat, Seraphina turned to him and drew him up the front stairs where he had waited patiently to be invited indoors. “Let’s go inside and I’ll introduce my family to you.”

“You sure are old to be Seraphina’s school friend!” piped up a small boy of about five. Percy flushed and ran a hand nervously through his hair, which had a different texture than he was used to. He crouched down and held out his hand, “Hello, I’m Percival Graves, and you are?”

“Maurice Phillipe Picquery!” proclaimed the kid happily, shaking his hand enthusiastically.  

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, young Mr. Picquery,” said Percival and rose to his feet.

“You can drop the glamour, we know you’re sixteen and white,” said a small, tough looking older witch, cocking her head at him with a calculating look. She was quite powerful, Percival decided, from her aura and personality.

“It’s not a glamour, grandmere,” said Seraphina placatingly, as Percival concentrated and shifted back to himself. Maurice looked really surprised and looked up at his mother about what to do or say. “He’s a metamorphmagus, Maury,” she explained, “he can change how he looks without a charm or spell.”

“Lucille Picquery, nee Robichaux, I’m married to Seraphina’s older brother Antoine,” she said to Percival, extending a hand which he bent over properly, thanking his mother silently for having formal wizarding etiquette drilled into him. He tried to not dwell on Seraphina’s stories of her frank discussions with her brother in case a legilmens was present.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” he said politely.

In turn, he was introduced to Antoine, Seraphina’s brother and Maurice’s older sister, Vivienne, who was seven. Then he was presented to Seraphina’s faintly alarming grandmother Lunette, various cousins and finally, her welcoming mother Marie and her not-so-welcoming father Jean-Robert, whose stern unfriendly look promised Percival that he would be having words with him.

The children dispersed outdoors to play, and the adults to the Yuletide preparations and activities that were interrupted by the prodigal daughter’s return.

“He’s not going to despoil me and leave me enceinte, Papa,” said Seraphina in a low voice as her father continued to glower at Percival, who really wished he was grown enough to look the man in the eye, rather than looking up at the six foot tall patriarch.

“Hmmph,” Jean-Robert grunted. “You didn’t have to go to Massachusetts to be educated. Plenty of gifted teachers in obeah hereabouts, or brujas in Texas willing to have you as an apprentice, ma petite.”

Seraphina sighed. Percival got the impression he was witnessing the latest in a long standing disagreement between parent and child. “I told you, Papa, I need to meet the right people and their children as well as learn advanced spell work. It’s who you know as well as what you know, if I want to get to my rightful place by my thirties. I need to build a reputation as well as a repertoire. For that, the best place for me was Ilvermorny.”

Her father turned a half- indignant, half-proud gaze from his daughter to Percival. “You think a black girl from Nawlins is going to become President of MACUSA?”

“If it’s Seraphina we’re talking about, then yes, sir, I do. She’s-- well,--she’s amazing and I would say that even if she weren’t a close friend. Besides, we’ve had a few women presidents already, after all. Canasatego of the Iroquois was a representative from New York to the Magical Council in the New World before the no-majs had their Revolutionary war, and McLeod and her wife were a governor and senator, respectively before she was vice-president back in the 1850s.”

“All Yankees. MidAtlantic or further north.”

“The point still is well taken, Mr. Picquery. All sorts of people have represented us and been leaders for people with magic for a long time. And a variety of people will continue to do so, Seraphina among them, I’m sure of it.”

“Well, you’re loyal in defending your friends, at least. Wampus, right?”

“Yes, I am,” Percy said calmly, with an unspoken threat of “and what are you going to make of it?” tacked on the end.

“Fancy speech and footwork for a critter with six legs,” he said, relaxing a bit and taking the scowl off his face. “Be welcome in my home, Percival Graves.”

“I thank you for the generosity of your welcome, Jean-Robert Picquery. And for your hospitality over Yule.”

He waved a dismissive hand in the teens’ direction. “Ah, go get yourselves something to drink and eat, I’m sure your travel made you peckish.”

Seraphina grabbed his hand and towed him towards the back of the house where a host of smells, some spicy, some familiar, hit his nose. “C’mon, Maman’s Pecan Pie is the best in the neighborhood.”

Canal Street as Percy saw it on his first visit: http://cdn.loc.gov/service/pnp/cph/3a10000/3a18000/3a18400/3a18420r.jpg  
A corner of Seraphina's childhood home: http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3a51598/  
Seraphina's new hat, on the right: http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3c24695/?co=anedub


	4. Awkward Gifts, Patronuses, and Potential Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More about Yule in New Orleans, Seraphina's patronus and interesting new students at Ilvermorny...

**January 1903**

It seemed very cold in Massachusetts after two weeks in Louisiana. He had tasted absinthe, the Green Fairy, as no-majs called it, and eaten an oyster po’boy and crawfish and jumbalaya (he didn’t like okra’s slimy feel going down his throat) and beignets and drunk coffee with chicory. Marie’s Pecan Pie was truly memorable, as Seraphina had promised.

He’d visited the Garden District and the French Quarter with its mix of maj and no-maj shops and Saint Louis cemetery where Marie LeVeau was buried. He heard about how the no maj law called the Black Code in 1894 brought Creole families such as the Picquery’s squib relatives into the black communities, and how Canal Street was the dividing line between the dirty blues players and the District jazz musicians.

New Orleans was so different from any other place he had been. There were French and Spanish influences in the architecture and culture. It had some of New York’s bustle in the port area and the society pages in the Times-Picayune and St. Elmos’s Blaze, the local wizarding paper, were full of articles similar to the New York Times and the New York Ghost.

He had a clarifying moment where he was having supper with Seraphina’s family and realized, with a start, that even with the Picqerys’ warm welcome, he was an outsider, the only white person and Northerner there and that this must sometimes be how she felt, pushed into a category of “different” in a heavily white school with lots of Yankees around her.

To his way of thinking that just made her alliances with all sorts of students that much more an impressive achievement. She collected allies, not caring about their backgrounds so long as they were personally powerful and ideally, also connected to powerful families or businesses.

For gifts for her family, he had let Seraphina guide him through what they would appreciate:: a knife for her father, a book of French magic erotica for her brother entitled “Bodies Beguiled” and a rose and opium poppy perfume for his wife. Her mother got a book on New England cookery and grandmere Lunette received a tome on household defense spells. Maury and his sister got snow globes and a dozen snowballs from Ilvermorny’s first snowfall of the winter, spelled to stay frozen in an icicle blue pouch on their trip south.

He returned north with Sera, his pockets loaded with shrunken presents. He had received a Hand of Glory from Lunette that he wasn’t sure he wanted to have it in his possession very long, it creeped him out, but he thought his Dark Arts teacher might find a use for it. He got a supply of High John the Conqueror root from Jean Robert for his potions and Dragon’s Blood Ink from Marie (“Maman likes you and is fine with you eventually you courting me,” Seraphina whispered in an aside, rolling her eyes in unison with Percy’s). From Seraphina he received a half dozen books including Machievelli’s _The Prince_ , a political history of Wizarding United States, Barricade’s _To be an Auror_ : _a primer of defensive spells_ , Wando’s _Power-how to have, hold and augment it_ , Burton’s _Arabian Nights_ and a dictionary of French spells and slang.

Antoine had enlarged Percy’s vocabulary of French curses, much to his wife’s annoyance since Maury had overheard and asked his great-grandmother “what’s _salope_ mean, Gran-Gran?”

“A useful word, ma petit, Grandmere was called it in her heyday by envious ugly ladies who were practically squibs.”

“But what is it in English?”  Maurice’s quest for knowledge had been diverted by a promise of petit fours and cocoa, fortunately, and Percy and Sera had escaped any punishments for using gutter language around little pitchers with big ears before they port-keyed north again in the new year.

The start of “spring” classes was on a day that saw winds from Canada come blustering down, howling around the school’s walls and making moaning sounds intermittently as a foot of snow fell across the northeast. Percy wore his scarf over his Wampus sweater and Sera called her fur lined lap blanket to them as they shared an enlarged arm chair in her house’s common room, plotting out what they next wanted to investigate together in defense spells. His patronus was lasting a bit longer and gaining definition—it was a raven or a crow—and Seraphina’s was an eagle, a bald eagle. He laughed when he saw it, after his astonished gasp when she proudly showed him, the apparition’s silver wings flaring out six feet as it beat the air and took flight.

“A seer would have a field day with your patronus. Of course it’s gotta be a bald eagle since you’re going to be President,” he said, still chuckling.

She smirked. “Of course it is. Good thing the no-majs didn’t go with Franklin’s proposed national bird being a wild turkey. Damn things can scarcely fly sometimes. Good eating, though.”

“Speaking of which, the mid-year sorting is before supper tonight. Let’s go get a good viewing spot.” Usually about a half dozen students transferred in from abroad each January. Sometimes students who had been home tutored entered at mid-year as well.

They made their way to the main hall and Percy took his usual spot halfway up the grand staircase. Seraphina sat a step above him, but beside him, so she could murmur in his ear.

Antoine Barthelmy went to Pukwudgie, as a third year.

“Hawthorne Castlerigg.”  A slim dark eyed boy with chestnut hair stepped forward.

“He and his sister are kids of the new ambassador to MACUSA from England and his American wife,” hissed Seraphina in Percival’s ear. “Pay attention to these two, they’ll be in your classes.”

Thunderbird was where Hawthorn ended up.

His twin sister, Rowan Castlerigg, a redhead, stepped onto the central floor space and looked about curiously.

A double pick-- Thunderbird and Wampus both offered her a place. She looked over at her brother and raised an eyebrow, her hand making an arching gesture.

He raised six fingers and she smiled broadly and said firmly, “Wampus.”

He flinched as Seraphina’s strong hand gripped his shoulder and she murmured in his ear again. “I want them both.”

He snorted. “Of course you do. They’re strong by themselves and I bet even stronger together.” It was a good thing Sera had set up a muffliato around the two of them or people would suspect them of being sexual predators or energy vampires if they overhead their conversation.

“Garland Abernathy-Schlessinger, second year.”

“Went to Durmstrang Institute a few years, his father’s a scientist, his mom’s an arithmetician, very technical work,” said Seraphina. “I hear he’s bright but lacks imagination, his much younger brother Gerald was just born this year.”

“Thunderbird?” guessed Percival.

“Yeah, I think so,” Seraphina said and they were proved right in due course.

“Babette Walenda,” announced Professor Gormengast.

Seraphina ignored the final sorting. “She’s practically a squib. Warsaw Witching Academy, all girls school, not that well respected.”

“Snob,” he said, sotto voce.

“Elitism—it’s not for everyone,” his friend retorted haughtily, and they made their way down to supper, Percival making sure to place himself across from Rowan Castlerigg and start making a good impression on the young woman Seraphina wanted to him to befriend so she could claim her and her brother as an ally.

Photo of a Hand of Glory: https://www.surnateum.org/English/surnateum/collection/demonologie/maindegloire.htm


	5. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seraphina and Rowan become friends and Percy and Thorne bond over chess

**Late April 1903**

Seraphina’s prediction about the Castlerigg twins being good in class proved correct. Percival worked harder and kept his top marks in dueling and defense, but Thorne had bested him in the strategy section of defense class and Rowan was definitely his superior in potions and transfiguration when it came to other subjects.

 If he felt safe enough to tell them about his metamorphmagus inheritance, thought Percy, he might impress them—he could do a very good impression of Seraphina—he almost had her accent and how she sometimes used her chin to point at something down pat.

However, he wasn’t sure what British attitudes were about living fetches and he had no one to ask about it. Thorne was teaching him the finer points of wizard chess and his examples using historical battles and duels made understanding strategy an easier proposition. Percy had offered an exchange in tutoring, but Thorne had just smiled and proposed, “let’s say you owe me a favor sometime, instead.”

Percival wrinkled his nose. “Were you in Ravenclaw or Slytherin at Hogwarts?”

“Five minutes before the hat called for Ravenclaw, telling me I was a good challenge to sort. Rowan was an easy two minute Slytherin call.”

The auburn haired boy looked over at his flame-haired sibling who was also in the library alcove with them. Percy and Seraphina’s two chairs had been joined by two more and a table where they could spread out papers and schoolwork. A ward of Thorne’s kept away curious underclassmen from their area. “What’re you two talking about?” he asked Rowan. She raised her head from where she had it next to Seraphina as they curled closely together, foreheads nearly touching as they conversed in low voices. “Androgynes, hermaphrodites and the how the typical male/female energy archetypes might be expressed in sex magic and alchemical marriage or in fertility rites for Beltaine, if the partners weren’t a man and a woman.” Thorne smiled, his sibling was far more into magical theory than he was.

“Did you know the Midwest has lots of native tribes here with Shamans, people called berdache who can access both male and female characteristics—more spiritually connected with both polarities?” Seraphina asked excitedly. Percy shook his head.

“In the Cheyenne tribe they make love potions and are matchmakers,” said Seraphina, her eyes glowing. They got a particular gleam when she was learning about something new that fascinated her. Different ways of channeling power were always of interest to the future President.

“Huh, how would a shaman with magic living with their tribe of mostly no-majs not be against the statutes of secrecy?” wondered Percy. It might explain why wizards who committed crimes often went to ground in the Midwest or hid away from the big cities on the west coast. Aurors were still pretty thin on the ground out there. Given the population of wizarding America versus no-majs, there was no way Aurors could cover even part of the nation full time, enforcing rules.

“Different laws for the native peoples,” Rowan said, in her soft husky voice. “Tribal laws hold sway where white man’s law ends. The berdache are highly respected, and those tribes aren’t about to give up their folk with magic to be obliviated by MACUSA flunkies or subject their religious leaders to being more of a target for no-majs than they already are for being inverts-- a lot of them--and cross dressing.”

“How did you get interested in this topic?” asked Percy. He wondered if Rowan were an invert; she seemed to be getting very close to Seraphina and he felt a bit jealous about how easily they seemed to getting along after only four months knowing each other versus the years he and Sera had been friends.

Rowan drew a deep breath to answer, but was stopped by her twin. “Rowe...” said Thorne, warningly. Her hands flew as she began signing at him in a flurry and, from his equally insistent stance, they were in the thick of a silent argument about something, completely ignoring their audience of Sera and Percy.

“You pick up any of their sign language?” asked Sera, glancing at Percy sideways, most of her attention on the twins, trying to gather clues from their body language. Rowan seemed to be trying to appease a reluctant Hawthorne or convince him of something.

“Mostly insults that Thorne uses in class behind people’s backs. That’s why I’m sometimes snorting at inappropriate times during study halls or tests,” confessed Percy. “Flipping the bird with your thumb out and your hand at your forehead means dumbfuck,” he said, demonstrating the sign.

“Their nickname for me is Eagle,” said Seraphina, putting a fist up to her face and crooking her pointer finger like a hooked raptor’s beak.

“Rowan knows a lot about native cultures, American and Canadian. She and Hawthorne liked the idea of Indian sign language so they made up one that also incorporates signs from deaf Americans’ sign language. Twins as youngsters sometimes use a language of their own that no one else understands,” said Seraphina, pensively. “I think learning signs could be useful within my group and help solidify cohesion with the inner circle of my supporters.”

She took both her hands, fingers hanging down and raised them to horizontal then up a slight angle.

“This is the sign for you. It means cemetery or buried or…”

“Graves,” he said dourly, anticipating her next word. “Trust you two to find a way to make an in-joke with my name in sign language.”

She smiled at him mischievously and he was struck with how cute she could be, when she wanted to make an effort to amuse or wasn’t trying to impress some audience. Clearly something was afoot if she was turning on the Picquery charisma. He would probably hear about it soon, without prompting her. She liked to be asked, but it tended to make her stay tight-lipped even longer, keeping her own counsel. This had happened enough that he knew her pattern around “need to know” issues and topics.

The twins stopped their flurry of signing and were looking at each other. Thorne seemed resigned and annoyed, Rowan had apparently won their disagreement. She patted his cheek and drew his forehead to hers as they rested against one another in a hug, eyes closed. Percival wished he had half the skills as a Legilimens that he had as an Occlumens at times like this.

“All good?” asked Seraphina, fingerspelling o, k. The twins broke their connection and turned to her. “I was showing Percy your nickname for him.”

The young woman smiled. “Mine is pretty obscure, Thorne and I use some cockney rhyming slang as well in our sign language. My nickname is this...” She cupped her hands. “Means boat.”

Percy thought. “Oh, a rowboat! Row, Rowan. And what’s Thorne’s?”

She demonstrated, her thumb, first finger, pinky extended. “Rose, cuz every Rowe has its Thorne.”

 Percy groaned. “Okay, I’m good with being a symbol for buried after that pun. Now, what were you arguing about?” He wasn’t about to be swayed from his curiosity about why Rowan was interested in such obscure branches of magic.

“What a good little auror,” said Seraphina in a confiding manner to Thorne, “like a wampus,  he bites, sets his teeth and just holds on to a question like prey. Curious as me, but less tactful as about pursuing a topic.”

“That’s why you’re going into high profile politics and I’m going to work as the man behind the scenes of Picquery the Impressive’s juggernaut to the top,” he retorted.

“Gotta do the auror thing for a few years first,” she said firmly. “Investigate crimes and motives, get on the ground experience. Then comes the fun part, politics.”

Thorne laughed. “If Percival is going to be a power behind the throne, then Rowan and I want to be a few levels deeper into the shadows than that.”

Seraphina nodded serenely. “Yes, I want the people heading my intelligence services to have a long history of trust with my Director of Magical Security.”

“There’s no such office, I’m going to be Head Auror, probably,” retorted Percy.

“It doesn’t exist yet,” said Sera firmly, “but it will.”

“When did you decide on this?” he asked.

“Oh, about the time you conceded that Thorne is your superior at strategy, swallowed your pride and asked him for help,” she said snarkily. “Shows that you can play well with others, not just me, that you can be a public face for law and order of my administration and withstand scrutiny when needed.”

“Huh.” He decided this development would need some thinking over in private. “So Rowan, how did you get interested in androgynes and Native shamans?”

She shot a look at her brother who smiled at her reassuringly. “Can you please cast a muffliato, Thorne? And you too, Sera?”

Percival raised his eyebrows. It seemed a bit of privacy spell overkill for a story about how she got interested in an obscure topic.

“Take a seat,” suggested Thorne, flopping into an armchair, “this may take a while. Show them the newspaper article, sis, that might speed things up.”

Percival sat down and stuffed a cushion behind his head. He cracked his neck and looked at the Castleriggs. “Right, what’s with the hush-hush shit? Practicing to be spies already?”

“Here, read this,” directed Rowan and a yellowing bit of a newspaper clipping floated down on the table between Percival and Seraphina. She picked it up. “I’ll read it out, yes?” Percy nodded and put his chin in his hand, waiting.

“Daily Prophet, birth announcements second week of June, 1886.

Allingham… Bagshot… Black… ah, Castlerigg. “Philomena nee Peabody Castlerigg of Boston and her husband Avedon Castlerigg of London, most recently assistant Ambassador to Bulgaria, announce the birth of their twin sons Hawthorne Argent and Roland D’eon on Thursday, June 10th.”

“Roland to Rowan, eh?” said Percival, finally. He wasn’t sure what he thought, except he could understand why Rowan wanted super strong wards before having this discussion.

Rowan winced a little at hearing the name. “Yeah, a few copies of the paper still exist, but mostly people know about the Castlerigg twins, a boy and his sister. Mother eventually convinced Father that he needed to accept who I was. Thorne was always on my side.”

Percival opened his mouth to ask another question then thought better of it when he saw the glare Thorne threw in his direction. “Okay, can I ask if you’re homosexual and if you’re attracted to Seraphina without getting hexed into next month?”

Rowan pursed her lips. “It’s a different thing, Percy, one is about me and how I feel and who I am, which is female and the other is whom I’m attracted to, which, yes, for now, is other women. I’m Seraphina’s friend, I hope. If we become lovers, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Got it,” said Percy and shut his mouth before he regretted some stupid or ignorant or foolishly possessive thing he might say. He knew from the beginning of his friendship with Sera that he would never exclusively claim all of Seraphina’s time, attention or affections and that was okay, he didn’t want to be tied down to traditions, but Rowan's life was miles beyond a usual childhood. He wasn't sure how to formulate his questions, so he decided he would just have to be quiet and listen when or if Rowan wanted to share her story.

He’d just never met someone who was a boy who wanted to be a girl. Rowan was good enough at transformations and had clearly taken some excellent permanent body changing potions that raised no questions. He would never have guessed his friend was a boy at one time. Finally, he remembered his manners. “I thank you for your trust in me. Would you like me to swear a vow of secrecy about this?”

He saw the twins relax and shake their heads in unison. He turned to Seraphina. “Did you know about this?”

“Mmm, no,” she shrugged and turned to the girl beside her. “You are who you are, and you will be one of my top spies. This does explain your interest in androgynes and two-spirit people, Ro. Maybe you could be my liaison to them when I’m elected President.”

The older girl nodded, teary-eyed and clasped Seraphina's hand. "Yes." The single word had all the solemnity of a binding oath. In another age, this exchange would have led to promise of fealty on bended knee.

Percy imagined that he would remember this day for a long time. It was plain that Seraphina had gained herself another two lifelong supporters and friends.


End file.
